(2024-07-05) Butterfly Home Invasion

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Author:	Athena
Summary:	Natalyah seeks out Lathrik of the Stormwind guard in the hopes of getting her lost property back, and Lathrik, in turn, ends up getting the most valuable thing in his house to stay put. 15,600~ words. Romantic/personal plot RP.
Rating:	M for Mature 17+

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romantic themes, PTSD, survivor trauma, suggestions of addictive behavior, jealousy

July in Stormwind is a toss up of what it will be on any particular day: a lovely, sunshine filled brightness with a pleasant breeze coming in off the harbor, driving fresh air along the streets; or a punishing, sunshine filled humidity with a disgusting rankness of the canals wafting around, clogging the streets. Unfortunately for Natalyah Kensington-Whit, of the Elwynn Kensington-Whits, it's the latter today.

She's in a dress again, a mostly yellow and white knee-length tea-dress, with tiny touches of pink along the bodice, and at the top, a stark black line at her décolletage, in the style of the southern dogface butterfly, a common one among the open woodlands and short-grass prairie hills of Hillsbrad and the Arathi Highlands. She has crutches once more, less easy to maneuver with when it comes to crowds, but she has no other alternative, with one of her canes missing. Her hair has curled up even more into wild waves around her face, the longer pieces sticking to her shoulders and back, and her cheeks are flushed both from exertion and possibly from the start of a sunburn, as she wears no sunhat.

When she enters this particular part of the city, she moves to a corner with a good line of sight for most of the area, and stares at every guard she can see, looking for any familiarity, any at all.

There are a few guards milling in the area, and none of them seem too happy with their current state of dress — full armor even in the heat of summer. Most of them are standing in pools of shade to escape the heat, and a single mage patrols the area, refilling waterskins and providing a cooling mist wherever she goes, to relieve heat fatigue.

On a corner opposite Natalyah stands a young man whose orange hair all but reflects the sun. His outfit is less than coordinated, consisting of clothing he probably just found somewhere, but he wears a bright smile regardless, and seems to be handing out papers to any who pass him by. Most of the guards ignore him or avoid him as usual, but one, a man with shoulder-length brown hair and blue and gold leather armor, familiar to Natalyah as ‘Reniya,’ approaches and takes a paper, pausing to look it over.

“Alysson, mate,” Reniya says, “that was your name, aye, Alysson? I dunno how to say this, but ever since those doomsayer gentlemen — an’ I use the term gentlemen loosely here — we’ve had a bit of a crackdown on the handin’ out of pamphlets. They’ve got to be Stormwind approved, now.” He gently smacks Alysson’s stack of papers with a knuckle.

“But tell you what. My mate’s got the ear of the Pamphlet Approval Board, the PAB, if you will, an’ he’s ready and set to issue you a permit, if you can find ‘im. He’s got dark hair, goes by the name of Lathrik.”

“Is this one o’ them hide an’ seek tests?” Alysson asks eagerly.

Reniya nods solemnly, straight faced. “That’s exactly right,” he says. “Good luck, mate.” He pats Alysson on the back, and the young man scampers off. After he's gone, Reniya cracks a grin, taking another glance down at the paper in his hand, then starting across the street to Natalyah's corner. He doesn't seem to have noticed her yet.

But she notices him, with mixed relief and exasperation. He might not have been her first choice of those among the options, but he'll do. She pushes into motion to put herself in his path as she calls out, "Excuse me. Reniya, wasn't it?"

Reniya stops, pausing to take her in, and his grin only widens. “Oi, it’s our wayward swallowtail,” he says, folding the paper on which only a square is drawn and sticking it in his back pocket. “What can I do for you?”

Natalyah opens her mouth to say something, pauses, and you can see it on her face that she's restraining herself from saying it. She blows a breath upwards at her hair, to get some of it off her forehead and tries to say what she actually did stop him for. I say tries because what she gets out is, "I am hoping that you will know how to find — " and then she stops, makes a frustrated sound and shakes her head at Reniya.

"Swallowtail, really? First off, it's like calling someone a 'rose,' so unspecific a type that it's virtually meaningless. The swallowtail family is large and populated by a variety of subsets within the overall species. Secondly, of the ones that do have this particular coloring of this dress yellow and black, none of them fit it at all, there's either not enough black to frame and distinguish into lines, or it's missing a signature splash of orange at the center, while this touch of pink fits none. Thirdly, if you are thinking of making a comparison of the species to me myself, picking the one known most for adapting to only look dangerous to predators, basing their colorations off of actually poisonous species, while being harmless themselves, I would strongly advise that you remember that I come with an another form perfectly capable of ripping your throat out with my teeth." She sniffs, like someone who has just sneezed and is trying to politely recover. "That being said, I was hoping to ask for your help with something."

Well, she's certainly staged that ask well. Look, she couldn't help herself. He misidentified the butterfly.

Reniya’s eyes glaze over as she launches into her explanation, only snapping back to attention on ‘ripping your throat out with my teeth.’ “You can bite me wherever you like,” he says, nodding. Maybe he thought that was the request. For some reason.

Natalyah goes ashen, swaying a little like she was about to take a step back, and instead she stiffens, takes a step forward closer, shaking her head fiercely at him, her voice dropping low. "Don't ever say that to a worgen. Not ever, not even in jest, do you understand me? That's how the Curse is passed. A bite. I could claw you and you'd just bleed, but if I bite you, you'll spend the rest of your life like this," she tells him, and there is no sign of a tease or joke. "And first? You'd go mad with it. You lose your mind, and only if you get help do you get it back."

Reniya raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, lass, alright,” he says. A pause. “So, d’you wanna scratch me instead?”

She breathes out a ugh, and gives him an arch look. "At the moment, a little bit tempted, yes." She shifts her weight on her crutches, the uncomfortable movement of someone too warm and whose feet foot hurts. "But no. You're part of that man's entourage or squadron or whatever you call it." She knows butterflies, not military terms, sorry. "I was hoping that you might know where he is. He has something of mine, and I would like it back."

“It’s not your virginity is it? ‘Cause if he’s got that, I don’t think even I can get ‘im to cough it up,” Reniya says. It’s definitely a joke. This is a man who knows well the rumors surrounding his friend.

"Oh, you still trying to get yours back from him unsuccessfully after he took pity on you? How tragic. Well, don't you worry, I'm sure with your sense of charm and the seduction capabilities with your interests I've seen thus far, it'll be growing back any day now."

Reniya’s lips twitch in amusement. “I do like a sharp tongued lass,” he says. “Alright, so here’s the deal. I dunno where he’s at right this moment, but I know where he’ll be in…” He glances around for a clock tower. “An hour?” he guesses. “Elle would know better, he’s a walkin’ hourglass, that ‘un.”

Natalyah wicked smile curls to life, like she's got a secret she's not going to share. "I'll take the estimate. And the location. I'd rather wait than keep trying my luck with finding the right guard. Tell me then, where will he be?"

“Home,” Reniya says. “Too early for a tavern, an’ too hot besides. Plus I think he’s been avoidin’ ‘em since his last time at one. He got a bit roughed up.” He starts walking, as though expecting her to follow.

She is, pushing herself into motion and keeping up with his stride. "From what I've heard, that's not so unusual for him, getting into a fight," she says tartly. But it's only a moment's pause before she speaks with concern audible in her voice, "He isn't… he's all right, isn't he?"

Reniya shoots her a sideways grin. “He’s fine,” he says. “Well. Fine for Lathrik. A bit broodier, aye? Least he didn’t get stabbed this time.” They take a turn towards Old Town.

"Knife or bottle? The stabbing? In Gilnean bars, it always felt like 50/50 if it'd be a fishing knife or they'd just break a bottle off, with no regard for how that murders your shoe soles." She is a little breathless as she keeps up and talks, but she doesn't ask him to slow down. "Are the bar fights anything to do with why the guard calls him 'Thousand Deaths'?"

“’Twas a proper knife, that,” Reniya says, shaking his head. He slows his pace just enough that it doesn’t feel like a conscious decision. “Lucky there was a healer on site that time, on account of his… limitations.”

They pass into a shaded tunnel, marking the entrance to Old Town, and Reniya pauses to take in the cooler air. “The name Thousand Deaths is ‘cause he’s got a streak goin’. He’s always gettin’ into it, be it bar fights or other, riskier assignments, an’ every time we were sure death was callin’ him, he’d come out of it alive. Dunno that I’d call it luck, since he’s seen more trouble’n most of us, but he’s somethin’ of a legend all the same.”

Natalyah nearly outpaces him, refusing to slow at all, but when he pauses fully, she's forced to stop as well. She really doesn't know where they're going.

"Do you all know he has someone watching him? Blonde girl, called herself Ilanya Ravendusk. Said she worked for someone with an interest in him. It sounded a bit mad to me, like someone just taking the piss, but…" She bites on the inside of lip distractedly, like she's thinking of something, but not going to say it.

“Ravendusk?” Genuine surprise spreads across his face. “There was a lass callin’ herself Lady Ravendusk for a time, but she was up an’ murdered by…” He starts forward again, stroking his beard in thought. “An’ it was the same night as… Right, that can’t be coincidence.”

Reniya glances at her, his expression serious for once. “You wouldn’ta been in town when it happened, but have you heard of Lathrik’s involvement with the death knight? Elle an’ I didn’t hear anything ‘til the trial happened, but Pennings had ‘im set up as the guy’s babysitter.”

Natalyah does not look pleased by Ren's turn towards the serious, and she bristles, an oddly protective expressionon her face. "See, that's odd. She mentioned the same thing, that I should ask of it, like it would turn my opinion of him." If it did, or might have, isn't certain. Her opinion at the moment seems to be more fully in Lathrik's camp though. "What is a 'death knight'? Some sort of…new guard or rank?"

“They were meant t’be the Scourge’s ultimate weapon,” Reniya says. “S’posed to have had a change of heart after hitting Light’s Hope Chapel out in the Plague…” he pauses, considering his audience. “Uh. Eastweald. Plaguelands, now, that place. Basically, they’re dead guys who haveta torture things to keep from going mad, and this one murdered three men in the streets.

“We found later, via trial, that the men he killed were cultists serving the Scourge, so all was well an’ good, but in the meantime, Lathrik had to look after him an’ see to his ‘needs.’ He called it walking his dog so we wouldn’t know what it was he was doin’. Ravendusk, the Lady, that is, was murdered the same night, by the same flavor of cultist.”

Natalyah takes the information in, her mouth opening several times to interrupt and ask a question, and closing again as it's either answered or goes in another direction so entirely that she needs a second to adjust. From the way she moves her head, a little shake with her chin, she might have just shoved death knight into some categorization of subspecies of Undead and is leaving it there for now. "So, what, because he was assigned to the death knight — what a stupid name, who came with that anyway? Sounds like the sort of ridiculous name Mr. Schaus comes up with. It doesn't even sound accurate. Undead Knight or — " Not the main issue. And at least in this case, can't be blamed on Arthas. Maybe it sounds better in the original orcish. "Just because that man was doing his job, you think he's being stalked by this 'Ravendusk' person, for the murder, for the connection? Revenge by the cultists or what?"

“Death knights ain’t a popular bunch, ‘specially with the folks from Lordaeron,” Reniya says. “But, her employer, you said, was interested?” He rubs his forehead, his expression tight and pensive.

Then, suddenly, his body language lightens back into his usual roguish bearing, and he flashes her a reassuring smile. “Welp,” he says, “we haven’t got enough information yet to know for sure. Knowing Lathrik though, if she’s been followin’ him long, he’s aware of ‘er.”

Natalyah's own expression flips from concerned to peeved, and she gestures with a crutch as if to say get a move on then. "Of course he is. I'm sure he's aware of all the women following him around trying to get his attention, probably already bored of it without the thrill of the chase. Typical man. I just want my property back, so." Go on then.

Yeah, she seems like that's all she's interested in.

Reniya laughs, continuing at a more normal pace. “And how’d ol’ Lathrik come by this property of yours? ‘Twasn’t at the wedding, was it?”

Rather than answer, there's a little bit of something hitching in the stride of her movement, and an affectation of being not especially interested as she says, "Why would you say that? I don't remember seeing you there."

“I was doing my job right, then,” he says. “I saw you ‘fore Lathrik did. ‘Twas my call that sent him your way.”

Whatever information she was hoping to get, it was not that. Disappointment drags her mouth down, and she scoffs out an exasperated sound in between pushes forward. "Of course it was you," she says, her tone bitter and sour. "No, it wasn't at the wedding. I interrupted his date the other night, and in my haste to get away from witnessing that embarrassing display of throwing herself at him before I lost the bourbon I paid good money for, I left one of my canes at the tavern. Given his need to be the paladin to interfere in my life and properties, and that it wasn't there the next day, he's the only one who likely has it."

There is a moment of uncharacteristic silence from Reniya as he peers at her, connecting certain dots in his head. “I… see,” he says at last. “Glad t’see you’re alright, then, lass.”

He turns onto a street where, at the end, sits a squat little house with dark windows, the imp of Old Town that has given up on world domination and opted to terrorize a neighborhood instead. It looks like someone tried to repair it, but gave up halfway through. The windows are cracked, one shutter is dangling from its hinges, but at least the roof looks functional. It is this house that Reniya leads her to.

Once the destination is obvious, he might take notice of her moment of realization. And he might have been, perhaps, expecting a haughty noblewoman's disgust and disdain, or some combination of disbelief and scorn, a recoiling of what a woman like her would be doing anywhere near a place like that; it is not any of those. Instead, she looks abruptly and softly sorrowful, with a sharp inhale not just because she's a little out of breath, but as if she's come across something painfully tragic. Her eyes drop for a moment before she drags them back up, forcing herself to look at it, to take note of the windows, the state of the door. She doesn't say anything, not loud enough for Reniya to hear, several degrees quieter than a whisper, but her lips form the barest shape of oh, Lathrik.

And then she's rolling her lips inwards, and tossing her hair over her shoulder, and forcing her brows to arch up. It's not a very convincing mask, maybe even less so because she's trying to put something on at all, like covering a spot on her face with a large black patch. "I'm always all right," she tells Reniya. "It's only that it's impossible to only replace just one of the set. I need both canes exactly the same weight and height, and so they're always bought as a pair. It's worth the trouble to get this one back."

There is a slight softening in Reniya’s eyes, a subtle appreciation of her reaction to the house that he hides by turning his focus to the door. “Now, this door tends to stick a bit, so it might need a good jostlin’. Bear with me here, lass.” He makes a show of bracing his shoulder against the door. “Elle destroyed the last one some months back, an’ the new one’s a tight fit.”

A grin and a wink follows this statement, distracting from a small movement made by his left hand — the retrieval of a lockpick. He sets to work on the door, using the act of unsticking it to hide his deft work with the lock.

She shifts her weight on her crutches, enough to free a hand so she can better push her hair out of her face. "'Elle'? Another one of his women? I guess that's one way to make a lasting impression," she says tartly. "Bit on the nose though, don't you think? Well, I suppose it depends on if she did it on her way in or on her way out as a suggestion or a performance review."

Reniya’s startled laugh nearly costs him his balance as the lock gives way and the door swings open. “Tide’s Grace, Elle as a lady? Naw, lass, he’s… you’ve met ‘im. Gentle giant we call him, black hair, stands up to here…” He raises his hand in demonstration. “The man’s got all the social skills of a rock, but he’s a good sort.”

He steps aside, allowing her into the dark, two room house. The first room is the living room, dining room, and kitchen, apparently. It contains a worn couch, facing a fireplace that sparkles with broken glass, a stained and scratch riddled coffee table between the two. Empty shelves line the wall to the left of the door, while cupboards, contents unknown, protrude from the back wall.

Behind the couch is a counter, with more cupboards beneath, and a small portable stove top sits on its surface. There is no door between this room and the next, only an empty frame, allowing vision straight into what is apparently the bedroom, and also the bathroom. Inside is a messy bed with a rather flat looking mattress, queen in size, a closet, and a plainly visible seat. Presumably the toilet. A bucket of water sits nearby for flushing and hand washing.

“You’ll be alright in here?” Reniya asks. “There’s no lights or the like, but it’s out of the sun.”

Is there any relief at all to know that Elle is the gentle giant? Or is she now wondering if she had it right the first time about the rendezvous impromptu picnic? Difficult to measure on her face of too many feelings before she's overcome by curiosity to see the inside of the place.

Natalyah hesitates only a moment at the threshold before she enters, and she's not making any secret of her perusal. Even with her back to Reniya, there's a sadness in the shape of her shoulders and the slow turning of her head, at the emptiness of the shelves, the suggestion of a place to exist for bare necessities, not a home at all. "Out of the sun is plenty to recommend it. Never thought I'd miss the overcast skies of Gilneas so much. I'd even listen to one of Mr. Brontel's lectures for an entire hour for a proper summer rain storm at this point." Whoever that is. Someone boring in the lepidopterist world, presumably. She turns in place to look back over at Ren. "You're not worried about leaving me here alone? Why I could be a proper terror, for all you know."

Honestly, Natalyah, at this point he probably knows for certain that you're a proper terror, but.

“Way I see it, an’ Lathrik would too, you’re now the most important thing in this place, so if you’re good, I’m good with leavin’ you here,” Reniya says. “’Sides, he went without a door at all for a few months. House does its job scarin’ people off most of the time. Only thing might piss him off is if you threw out his stash of mana potions.”

She glances over at him, a touch of suspicious confusion, and then she sniffs the air. There's a radiant touch of gold to her eyes for just a blink, and then her nose wrinkles as she looks over to the fireplace before taking a few steps towards it, sniffing again. "Ugh, mana potions" she mutters. She might not be overfond of the smell of mana potions, and her nose might be keen enough to pick it out. But in the end all she does is direct herself over to the couch, hitting it once with a crutch as if to test its soundness. "I'm not going to throw anything out, or destroy anything." She hits the couch again, a little harder, before setting the crutch against the couch and turning in place to take a seat carefully, one hand still on her other crutch. "Intentionally, anyway."

“Fair enough,” Reniya says with a smile. “He’ll be along ‘fore you know it. I’ve got t’get back to my post before Pennings chews me out.” He throws her a cheerful wave, before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

Once he's gone, Natalyah settles more onto the couch, pausing to assess if it is about to give way under her, and propping both her crutches better against it within easy reach. When the couch holds, she sinks back into the cushion more. She takes a longer, sharper look at the room, and what she can see of the other room from her position, but she doesn't get up and she doesn't go snooping around. If she looks at all for her cane out in the open, it doesn't seem to be a priority, her attention more on the walls, the shelves, the kitchen, and a very long stare at the fireplace. Without any audience, she plucks at her dress front, trying for some air circulation to cool down the sweat pooled there between her breasts. After a few minutes, she reaches down to unlace her shoe, and pulls her leg up onto the couch, hair spread out around her and off her neck, as she stretches out to stare up at the ceiling, tapping her fingers on the worn pillow like someone trying not to notice time passing slowly and failing.

As the minutes gather up, the time passing alone in the empty shell of a house, whatever thoughts she's been using to occupy her mind in the silence eventually cause her to close her eyes, and then there's thinking with her eyes closed, and then there's just sleeping, one hand on her chest rising and falling slowly, her other curled lightly, almost a little possessively, over the couch cushion.

As predicted, in an hour, (roughly,) the door opens and light filters in, shining as far as the couch until Lathrik’s shadow blocks its entry, a slumped, tired line of darkness. He deposits his sword atop the shelves beside the door, sheds his shield, then shuts the door, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

Then he turns to the couch.

His first inhale is sharp, one of pure, unrestrained terror. He reaches for the sword he’d set behind him, but without taking his eyes from Natalyah all his trembling hand can find is the rough surface of the shelf. In his moment of hesitation, he forgets to breathe. His eyes scan the rest of the house, searching for some indication of a trap, but within seconds his instinct breaks down and he rushes to her side. If there was a trap, he would now be Caught.

“Natalyah?” he calls, kneeling beside the couch, all but throwing down one of his gauntlets before reaching to touch her shoulder. Panic and desperation edge into his voice.

Natalyah startles awake with a snort and a, "What? No. Yes. The salmon," in a hoarse, low voiced sort of mumble, a touch of Gilnean accent rounding out her natural Stormwind. She's still flushed from the sun earlier, and her eyes are heavy-lidded with sleep. When she sees his face, she smiles lazily as her lips curl up impishly, invitingly.

And then she actually wakes up, with a louder gasp, as she flails to sit up. "What — " Aside from confusion and disorientation of an unexpected nap, she seems unharmed, no evidence so far of being drugged or magically subdued.

His sharp gaze confirms her safety in an instant, and his hand on her shoulder is firm and reassuring. “Stay there,” he says, returning to his feet and scanning the room. He begins his search, checking the inside of the fireplace, opening cupboards, scrutinizing shadows. He does not ask her what she’s doing there, a sign that there is still panic driving his actions.

She rubs at her eyes, and her mouth, as she blinks stupidly at him for a few moments. She turns to sit, one foot on the ground, and runs her hand through her hair, trying to settle it into some semblance of order. By the time he's through a few cupboards she finally asks, "What are you doing?" Her tone is defensive, like he's accusing her of doing something in his actions. "I didn't touch anything, or go snooping, or throw anything away. I came in, sat here, and nothing else."

Lathrik pauses mid-cupboard. “You came in?” He turns to look at her again.

She crosses her arms over chest, and there's a touch of hurt in the way she shrugs. "Reniya let me in. I was looking for…" A hesitant pause as she holds her gaze on Lathrik, and then deliberately looks away before she continues. "My cane. I thought you might have it. In case you haven't noticed, it's blistering out there, and I didn't fancy much becoming the world's first lobster-worgen hybrid. He didn't seem to think you'd mind if I waited here."

He slowly closes the cupboard, taking a steadying breath. “Ren did,” he says. Recalibrating. “Right. I was lookin’ for it. Your cane.” As he opens another cupboard and shifts some blankets out of the way, there is the muffled sound of bottles clinking together. Mana potions. It is from that cupboard that he pulls her cane.

Sure. Who doesn't look for where they keep a cane like the cane owes them money and might be hiding up the chimney.

“Where’re you staying?” he asks suddenly.

Her look of disbelief is obvious, and her eyes are lingering on the cupboard for a moment before she looks at him and the question obviously throws her. "Nowhere," she says, honestly, and then immediately tries to cover it up. "I mean, why? Why would you want to know? From what I heard, you don't go to women's houses." Yeah, quick, throw him off the scent, maybe he'll ignore the first answer, won't be considering those odd pauses she's had before mentioning she's going 'home,' or that there isn't even a room for her at her house any longer.

After stuffing the blankets back into the cupboard, he returns to his feet, passing her the cane. “I was trying to return it to ye sooner,” he says. “Checked every inn, from here to Goldshire. But if you’re staying nowhere, that explains it.” He does not address her mention of the rumors, but the weight of it shows in the slump of his shoulders, and the smile he gives her is self-depreciating.

She takes the cane, and sets it next to the crutches. It doesn't take a person with strong math skills to realize that transporting it anywhere using crutches at the same time is going to be a logistical nightmare. "I'm obviously staying somewhere," she counters. Her eyes roam the room again and she relents on some tightly guarded admission, aiming for a flippant sort of tone, like it doesn't matter at all. "It's not like I haven't spent the last four years sleeping in the woods already, what's another few months or year? I have no income. I can't afford to stay somewhere with luxuries like 'walls' and 'roofs.' Even dubious ones."

Lathrik takes a seat on the floor between the coffee table and the fireplace. “And I s’pose offering to house ye here would be insulting?” He regards her seriously.

What it seems to be is shocking, like he suddenly, inexplicably dipped into some other language beyond Common, and just expected that she would know it. There's a long silence where her face travels through the initial surprise, confusion, wariness, defensive insult, hopefulness, and movements of her lips like she's attempting a translation with brief half-formed words of you — and I don't — before at last she just says, "What?"

“It’s got walls, a roof,” he says. “Ye can have the bed. Place is too big for me anyhow.”

Maybe she can blame the nap on the slow processing speed, because she's just blinking slowly at him, more like a cat than a canine, slightly open mouthed. "I'm sorry I — what are you — " She raises both hands to her face, presses them briefly together over the bridge of her nose, taps her eyelids, and lowers them with a sigh. "And where are you in this scenario?"

Lathrik shrugs. “Couch?”

If there was a correct answer to land on, something that would actually sway a decision of hers in a favorable direction — presuming said favorable direction was to catch the butterfly in the net — that was it.

Her eyes are wide, and there it is again, that hopeful, almost pleading, expression, and she raises a hand to her collarbone, her finger sliding along the wing of it, until she sets her hand along the side of her neck. It doesn't look like she's going to say no. She tosses her head a little, arching her left brow. "And your parade of women coming through? You don't think that might be a minor dissuasion, to find one already in residence? Even a door won't disguise that a woman lives here." That sounds like…like she's saying she would, in fact, say yes.

“If you’re staying, I’ve got more important things to do than spend nights out drinking,” he says, his eyes sweeping around the room again as if seeing it for the first time. Whatever he sees, he is clearly not satisfied with.

That might be only more incentive, because she says, "Well then I suppose you'll have more important things to do. Because I accept the offer." She looks back at the room — the room with no door to the bedroom. "Who did you get to fix your front door?"

Lathrik follows her gaze. “I did it,” he says. “Eventually. Ye want one put in there?”

Uh oh. Is that an implied dare, or did she just interpret it that way? She leans back on the couch, head tipped back a little, and he might recognize the expression on her face the same as when she affirmed his alive-status by setting her hand at his throat. "Do you not want one there?" It's door closure chicken, now, Lathrik.

“Well I was thinkin’ at least a blanket would —” His eyes flick to the window, noting the position of the sun. “Right. I can pick somethin’ up for that after we fetch your things.” The we in that does not seem to be negotiable.

And yet, she's going to argue anyway. Possibly unsurprisingly by now. "I can handle it myself. It's not that much to pay for the cart, I just have to…find someone with one willing to travel to Elywnn and back. I did it before."

“Ye found someone right here,” Lathrik says, getting to his feet. “We can go now, or ye can take a moments rest, let the heat die down, and we’ll head off come evening.”

She's clearly debating with herself, the conflicting pros and cons of some internal decision. Her place revealed in the light of day, but the benefit of a clear path vs having to struggle through the forest at night, almost certainly requiring her to stay in her worgen form. And then of course, the realities of resting in the house.

"You have a cart, what just waiting around? Fine. Then let's go. They're two very heavy trunks, and it's antique wood, high quality. I'm not going to try to move them through the forest in the dark." She's already leaning over now, pulling her shoe back on, and tying it off.

“What I’ve got is connections,” Lathrik says, “and one of them, insufferable though he is, has a carriage we might borrow.” He opens the door. “D’you happen to know a ‘Peril Farrens?’”

She collects her crutches, pulls herself up into a stand, and pushes into motion to follow him, shaking her head. "No." She doesn't hesitate as she makes it to his side. "Is that the death knight you were guarding? The one Pennings put you on?"

“Ren tell ye about that?” he asks, strapping his sword back to his belt. Before stepping outside, he slips a mana potion from his pouch and drains it, tossing the bottle into the fireplace where it shatters. “Nah. Death knight goes by Harvey Morningdew. Former Lordaeron noble, ‘til he died and came back. Haven’t seen ‘im since he left for Northrend.”

Natalyah watches him drink and toss the mana potion casually, like he does it all the time, with the look of someone who just had a culture shock, like she hadn't known the locals have a certain custom they forgot to mention. But then again, he did just get off work. Maybe he's been at the Kings Blessings for everyone again, or maybe he finished up a dungeon, who knows. She pushes outside, watching Lathrik. "All right. Who is 'Peril Farrens,' then? Another person I should already know that everyone else has known about for years?"

“Something like that,” Lathrik says, shutting the door and locking it behind them. “But knowing him isn’t necessary. You ever see a paper titled ‘Azerothian Interest,’ put it down and walk away.”

He starts them towards the Magic Quarter.

"Oh, well you've certainly convinced me. I will definitely be doing that. 'Azerothian Interest,' you say?" Light, she's already looking around for anyone who looks like they might be selling a paper at this hour, even as she keeps up with Lathrik's walking pace.

“Fine, but ye can’t say I didn’t warn you,” he says, shaking his head. “Read it at your own…” there is a noticeable pause as he scrambles to find another word. “…risk,” he finally settles on. “And if you see his imp, you’re free to smack it.”

"The risk of a paper? Please. You should see the sorts of things I've read from would-be lepidopterists. I survived slogging through Mr. Brontel's unbelievably egregious 'research' of the vampire moth that quite honestly made me lose faith in the academic publishing world at age 17. No paper can frighten me now." She sounds already a little out of breath, and although she's hiding it relatively well, there's a good chance her foot is already sore from walking most of the day. "When you say 'imp,' though — are we speaking of an actual imp, or a euphemism for a man with a penchant for women in tea dresses?"

Lathrik chuckles, a small, contained sound that differs wildly from his drunken, showy laughter that night at the bar, and somehow seems more real for it. “Can it be both?”

"Well I'll certainly be claiming so for the right to smack it should I see it, in either case," Natalyah quips back. "Official permission from the guard, and all that."

“Well, I warned him about havin’ the little green devil out in public, and if it’s the other, he’s earned it,” he says.

She laughs, and it's an unfettered slightly villainous cackle, and for the time being, the only impish thing out in full force is Natalyah's smile.

He leads them along the shortest possible route to their destination, cutting through alleys where necessary to avoid the crowds and harsh sun both. Their destination is an office tucked into the Northern Magic Quarter — the office of the Azerothian Interest publication. It appears to be closed for the day, but Lathrik steps up to it anyway, and before he can even knock, there is a thumping noise from inside. The sound of someone rushing — and tripping — down stairs.

“Light,” Lathrik mutters, turning to Natalyah. “Now before ye say anythin’, there is nothing romantic —”

The door swings open and a man wearing a brown vest with a matching hat bursts out of it and grabs his hand. “Lathrik! I heard there was a fight. Are you… No, if you’re here, there must be something wrong. Was the damage… is anything broken? Do you need to come sit?”

“I’m fine, Peril. This is Natalyah.” Lathrik gestures to her.

Natalyah takes Peril in, her eyes on the way he grabs Lathrik's hand, and the questions. She tips her head, and pulls up to her full height, resting her crutch against her chest as she holds out a hand for Peril — like a lady, not a handshake. "Natalyah Kensington-Whit. Do you happen to have a copy of the Azerothian Interest I can purchase from you?"

“I…” Several things seem to happen at once in Peril’s head. His eyes widen, he glances between the pair of them, then into his office, then at them again. He takes Natalyah’s offered hand in both of his, and… shakes it up and down anyway. “Are you pregnant?” he blurts.

Lathrik runs a hand down his face.

"Not without a miracle," Natalyah answers archly. "Why, are you? Don't worry, even if you are, I hear it isn't catching."

“I’m pretty sure I…” Peril sees Lathrik’s eyebrows rise and shuts his mouth on that. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “You, uh. You’re interested in the paper? That’s… given your company, a bit surprising.” He gives Lathrik a suspicious look. “I don’t have any current issues on hand, but, I do believe I can scare up one of our older editions.”

"I'll take it. I've been warned against it. That's never stopped me before and won't in the future." The smile she gives Peril might put him somewhat in mind of his imp, for some reason.

The suspicious look goes flat. “Sounds right,” he says. “I’ll have a look at my stock. But before I go, if you don’t mind me saying, Natalyah, your dress looks very reminiscent of the Southern Dogface butterfly.”

If either man wants to know what Natalyah's hundred watt smile looks like, they get to find out. She shifts to twirl her dress a little, and laughs, a charming little sound. Peril, still holding her hand, also gets a little lift up, like she's inviting him to kiss the back of her hand. "And I didn't realize he knew men of such learned tastes. Almost no one gets this one, unless they make a habit of traveling through Arathi in particular. You have it correct, Mr. Farrens. Or do you prefer Peril? It's a lovely name. I don't suppose you're much acquainted with butterflies in general, or is this a specific favorite?"

Peril’s own eyes light up in eager excitement. “It was intentional? To think I would ever see such a creative dress… I’m impressed. I do as a matter of fact have an interest in butterflies. Numbering among my favorites are the Red Admiral, the Mourning Cloak, and the Blue Morpho. Peril is my preferred name, because it sounds… dangerous.” His gaze snaps to Lathrik questioningly, as if to say, where in the world did you find this gem?

Lathrik shrugs at him. “Peril, I’m borrowing your carriage. Do what ye need to do here, I’ll bring it ‘round.”

Natalyah ignores Lathrik, focused on Peril. "Oh, thank you. You're too kind. The Blue Morpho. I have a dress of that one as well. I wore it recently. As a matter of fact, I wrote an extension and correction on that one, identifying correctly that they are not actually blue, but iridescent, from the scales. Nat K.W., if you read literature on it." Natalyah takes her hand back, mostly so that she can resecure on her crutch. "Where is your charming paper, Peril? Really, you must let me buy an issue from you."

“You’re Nat K.W.? You…Gilneas… but…” Peril shakes it off. “Come in, come in, there’s no reason to wait for Lathrik out here. Oh, uh, Lathrik, the keys for the lock?”

“Don’t need the keys,” Lathrik says as he turns from them to retrieve what he seeks.

Peril steps aside to usher Natalyah in. “I’ll have you know, I always found your papers most discerning. Do you have plans to continue your work?”

Being recognized only brings out even more of a proud glow, Natalyah in her brightest element.

And then it's wiped away at the mention of continuing it, and she stumbles, the crutches hitting not necessarily any obstacle on the floor other than her own pride, and she gasps in fear, unlikely to catch her balance before she'll hit the floor.

Peril sees it coming. He can make it. He can be the hero. He grabs her around the waist and… trips, all but ensuring they both go crashing to the floor.

The crutches slide, one to one side, the other under them, making for an exceptionally uncomfortable landing. Natalyah, at least, manages to fall more purposefully, once she realizes the inevitable. It's not exactly graceful, but it is smart; she isn't going to break or sprain anything. She's barely hit the ground though before she's already wrestling Peril to get him off her waist. "Let go of me!"

Lathrik comes running back at the sound and her cry, frowning as he sees the pile on the floor. “What…”

Peril, scrambling to the side and struggling to get up, shoots the paladin a frightened look. “I — she — she was falling, so…”

Lathrik sighs, stepping into the room. “Are either of you hurt? ‘Talyah?”

Natalyah is still, for another moment, caught there on her hands and one knee, before she turns over to a sit. She has that ashen look to her, sweat on her brow, and she's panting in a way that Lathrik might recognize, like it's difficult for her to keep her human form, and she's got a fingernail grip on it. There's an odd blend of emotion in her eyes looking up at him, relief and embarrassment and a strange lingering distress, something between panic and fear. She glances at her crutches, and back up at Lathrik. All she'd have to do is reach out a hand to ask for help back up.

So, of course, she doesn't do that.

"No. I'm not hurt." There's a hollowness in her voice, a stark contrast to the brightness just a few moments ago.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Peril says. “I didn’t… I thought I could…”

Lathrik pats him on the shoulder on the way by, then kneels in front of Natalyah, offering a hand to her from a much closer position. So close, that she could use his shoulders for balance, if she wanted. “Take your time,” he says, as if he is prepared to hold that kneel for several hours.

"He didn't do anything wrong to make me fall," she tells Lathrik. "I slipped." She looks a lot more shaken for someone who just slipped, but okay.

She has not once actually taken his hand in offer, every time refusing it, even when avoiding it meant remaining on the ground until something else was nearby that she could use to get up on her own.

So it probably means something when this time she slips one hand into his, and sets another on his shoulder to brace herself and get her leg back under her, trusting in his balance to get them both up from the ground, her eyes on his face like she's waiting for something there — but it's unclear what it is exactly she's expecting.

His hand twitches around hers, as if surprised that she actually took it, and his brown eyes scan her expression, his own a mask of patience, with cracks of concern showing through. There is something close to reluctance as he raises them to their feet, gesturing with his free hand for Peril to collect the crutches. Whatever it is, he wills it away with a breath.

“Peril can be…clumsy, but he means well,” Lathrik agrees. “His luck is similar to mine. It must run in the family.”

Peril’s eyes widen at Lathrik’s words, and he mouths, are you sure?

At a Look from the paladin, he settles for awkwardly holding out the crutches.

"Well, running away from our problems is what mostly runs in my family, so…" Natalyah sets her arm more around Lathrik's shoulders, close enough that her hair brushes against his cheek, as she releases his hand to take first one crutch and get her balance secure with it, before she reaches for the other and stabilizes herself, pulling away to stand on her own. "To answer your question, no. I have no current plans to continue my work at the moment. My assistant died four years ago in Gilneas, and without him, I have no method I can use to study specimens properly."

Peril looks stricken. “That’s… I’m sorry. For your loss, and the reminder of it. It should have occurred to me, your return from Gilneas… what happened there… I’m so sorry.”

As Natalyah pulls away from him, Lathrik closes his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to hold onto the feel of her for as long as he can. He takes a breath and the moment is over. “Will ye both be alright now, while I fetch that carriage?” he asks almost accusingly.

Her smile is a little forced, something of distress still lingering in her eyes, but she's not owning up to it. In fact, she seems determined to avoid addressing it at all.

"Of course. I still haven't gotten my Azerothian Interest, and I'm not leaving until I get one." There's an imperious element to her tone, a reminder that she was once a noblewoman of some rank, but there's no cruelty or menace behind it. She gestures with one crutch for Peril to go onwards. "You should probably go ahead of me, even if that does sort of imply I'll be following you into danger.”

Peril’s lips twitch into a smile. “Well that’s only right,” he says. “After all, Danger is my first name. And his middle name.” He gestures to Lathrik.

“I’ll be fast, aye?” Lathrik says, ignoring Peril while he scans Natalyah’s face again.

"Fast and dangerous, apparently. You family must have either had an incredible sense of humor or the gift of prophecy." Natalyah's smile is still not her real one, and there's still a brittleness to her voice, but the color is back in her face, and she seems determined to continue on as she was, looking away from Lathrik to scan the rest of the interior of the place, as if she might spot a back-issue of Azerothian Interest.

Something in Lathrik snaps shut at the comment, and he turns away, reaching for another mana potion. “Prophecy, hm? Maybe.” He tosses it back on the way out the door, tucking the empty bottle back into his pouch.

Guilt flashes across Peril’s face, and he pulls his hat down to further shield his face.

The office is a cluttered space. Two tables serve as desks, one set some few feet behind the other. Both are piled with paper, though Peril’s Super Snapper sits on the near one. The area closest to the door contains a couch, set back against a window, and a bookshelf along the wall. A coffee table — complete with coasters, because Peril, unlike his brother, does not abide stains or rings — sits in front of the couch. To the left is a staircase, leading to what is likely an attic or small bedroom.

Peril approaches some boxes on the floor by his ‘desk,’ and begins rifling through the papers within.

Natalyah watches Lathrik leave, and there's a frown at the mana potion, but she says nothing until Peril has started to look through the papers, moving in closer to him and resting on her crutches. "What is his middle name, anyway? It's not literally just 'danger' is it?"

“No, it’s… Hazard — what…are you to him, if you don’t mind my prying? He’s never told anyone we’re related, and I don’t know how much I’m allowed to say.” He pauses to scan over a sheet in his hand.

"Oh, I always solve that sort of conundrum with just saying whatever it is I want to. If he had things he didn't want you to say, then he should have, well, said them." It might occur to Peril that if Natalyah had a more descriptive middle name, it would be something like Trouble. "As for what I am to him…" There's an unusual pause, like she's trying to find the right words and they're not quick at hand. "A butterfly, I suppose."

Peril smiles at the word chosen, and turns to her, paper in hand. “I can’t say I’ve known my brother to consort much with butterflies, for fear he might crush them,” he says. “But that must make you special.” He hesitates, a slight flush beneath the rim of his hat, then holds out the paper, Azerothian Interest Article #10.

"I am. I'm uncrushable," she tells him, as she takes the paper. Is she going to read it right in front of him? Sure is. It's not especially easy for her; she has to balance her arms on her crutches, but she holds the paper up; she does it properly, as well, someone who has spent time reading newspapers, or was taught the proper etiquette for it at some point, perhaps.

Her eyes fly wide at the revelations that Count Wishock was assassinated and she scans rapidly for the date, sighing with exasperation as she realizes it's an entire year ago. "Graceless damned gods," she mutters as she continues. A frown forms shortly after, and she opens her mouth, makes a slight hiss of air like she's not sure about forming a word or not, and in the end just keeps reading. He might be able to tell when she gets to Peril's Advice on how to be noble because at first there's the sudden perk of her impish smile, and then she starts laughing.

And she doesn't stop laughing. She nearly loses her balance, and has to lower the paper so she can hold onto her crutches as if for dear life as she keeps laughing, shaking like a leaf in a high wind. There are tears starting to stream down her face. It's still going. And going.

Peril blinks. Oh. She’s laughing. Good? Then the tears start. Is… is that still laughing? He checks his pockets. Of course he doesn’t have a handkerchief at the exact second he needs one. He casts about his desk, starting to panic a little. No handkerchief. He checks under his desk. Nothing.

And then, a tiny green ball of felfire appears on the staircase. Nokuri the imp, triumphantly holding a square of cloth like a trophy — and one he is not willing to give up.

Peril pales. This is an emergency. Everybody knows the remedy for crying lady is handkerchief, and his is now dancing up the stairs. “P-pardon me,” he stutters, pulling a small pouch of curry powder from where it is tied to his belt. After carefully squeezing around her, he bolts up the stairs after the imp.

Natalyah has arrived at the wheezing for air and gasping laughter stage. She's still gripping onto the paper, and alternating now between bowing over and throwing her head back, as if just as she starts to get a grip on the laughter, she remembers a part — or perhaps some particular memory of her own life among the nobility — and loses it again.

She wipes at her face with her palm as soon as she's at least relatively sure she isn't going to topple over, as she tries to breathe without bursting back into another laugh, only partially successful. "Oh. Wow," she gasps. Laughs again. "That was brilliant," she calls over her shoulder to where Peril has bolted. "I don't usually say that about a man's writing, but this was…" Another breathless wheeze of laughter.

There is a loud crash from upstairs, then Peril staggers back into sight, holding up the handkerchief. “I got it!” he announces. His hat is slightly askew, and he all but stumbles down the stairs, but he offers her the handkerchief proudly. Crying lady fixed! …Hopefully.

“I was…a bit nervous, about showing you my work,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “See, you’re an academic idol of mine, and I… my papers wouldn’t sell. Too dry, they told me. So I…”

Natalyah takes the handkerchief automatically, a remnant of another upbringing, and dabs at her eyes like a lady. "Oh, sinners and martyrs, I know how that feels. You know it took me twelve attempts to get published the first time? Drove me half-mad. It was either 'too academic' for a 'woman's writing', or it was dismissed entirely out of hand because it was incredibly specific. I refused to give it up though, or alter it. I was just that sure of the content, and I suppose I'm the sort that once I've decided on something, I do it whole heartedly. I wouldn't recommend it for a source of income, though, proud of the work I may be. But this?" She laughs again, fluttering the paper in her hand. "This is brilliant. I've never read a more entertaining paper. He told me to read at my own risk, but I hadn't realized he meant I might literally die laughing. How often do you publish these?"

Peril’s eyes widen. “Really, twelve? If it was only me, I would have kept at it myself, but Lathrik…” The flash of guilt returns, and he drops that sentence. “I publish as often as I can,” he says, “though the Cataclysm has put a bit of a halt on my travel plans. I’ll be back out in the field soon; after all, news waits for no one.”

Lathrik returns, then, entering the building and dropping a lock and chain on the couch. “It’s done,” he says. “Ready to leave?”

“You’re not…going far, are you?” Peril asks, glancing between Lathrik and Natalyah.

Natalyah shakes her head as she sniffles, and hands the handkerchief back out to Peril. "No, just Elwynn, east side of the forest." She is attempting to fold the paper back up one-handed, which is more difficult than it sounds, but she is partially managing it. "When you do next publish, make sure a copy ends up at his door, will you? I'll want to read it." She turns a smile onto Lathrik, like she's got a fantastic, wicked secret. It's a far cry from the stressed and angrily hurt expressions she's had on lately.

Peril glances between them again, his mouth partially ajar as he makes a number of speculations, but Lathrik crosses his arms, daring him to comment.

“Uh, his… his house. Right. Got it,” is all Peril says.

Lathrik, to his credit, does not protest this arrangement, wearing a look of resignation instead. “Daylight’s burnin’,” he says, turning back towards the door. “Later, Peril.”

“It… it was good seeing you again,” Peril calls after him, receiving only a grunt in return.

"It was lovely meeting you," Natalyah tells Peril. She wiggles her fingers at him in farewell, pushing herself back into motion to follow Lathrik, holding her copy of the Azerothian Interest in a two finger grip, using the rest of her hand to maneuver her crutch.

Peril waves back, and makes no move to close the door after them. He will probably still be there, staring dumbfounded at the doorway, several minutes later.

Outside, a carriage stands ready, guided by a large black horse that Lathrik approaches fondly, stroking the side of his neck. “Wish I could change his coat to white in the summertime,” he says, before turning to Natalyah. “This’s Risk.”

She is probably still too close to the fit of laughter earlier, because it evokes another wave of it, a delighted cackle before she manages to rein it in (haha), blowing out a breath. "Amazing," she says. She makes no move to approach the horse herself, but she does eye the carriage for the driver seat.

“I’m driving,” Lathrik says, catching her gaze. “’Less ye mean to sit in my lap?”

Despite his words, there does seem to be enough room for two people in the front of the carriage, though the seating would be snug. The coach is small, about four passengers maximum, and weather protected, its color resembling a deep cherry wood.

She leans in closer to him, velvet dark eyes still dancing with mirth and mischief. "And what if I did?" It's another one of those dares, like it's entirely possible that she'd do it, just to prove that she would. It'd be incredibly dangerous though.

Lathrik closes the distance further, gazing down at her intensely. “Hasn’t anyone warned ye not to tease a man?” He reaches up to brush her hair from her shoulder.

She cants her head more to the side, holding her ground, not pulling away. "I worry about that a lot less in general now that I can turn into a 200lbs monster capable of ripping out a man's throat," she says tartly, but she's staring as intently back up at him. "Besides, I'm not in any danger from you. You're not that sort of man." There's a flutter of her lashes, a break in her gaze for a second, and she tries for a more flippant tone, not entirely successfully. "What I said before, about your family's prophetic possibility, I meant that you're the sort of man who sees something dangerous, hazardous even, and runs towards it, not away from it, to put himself between it and the rest of the world."

Lathrik’s expression flickers and he breaks eye contact. “’Twas our father’s doing. The names. I never knew him, and Peril doesn’t remember much. He died in some battle, or war, so I s’pose he must’ve been that sort of man himself.” He opens the door of the coach for her and steps away.

Natalyah watches him, crosses to the coach door, and tosses her crutches in, one at a time, and the Azerothian Interest folded neatly onto the seat. "I'm sorry. Really," she says sincerely. "For your father. Mine's a coward, so he's still well and alive, and probably going to stay that way, for all the good it does me. That's the Elwynn Kensington-Whit way." She closes the door to the coach; she is not in it. She is, instead, using the carriage to hop-move to the front where the seat is, and pulls herself up into it with, if not grace, effective athleticism and familiarity with getting herself around. She really is going to sit up front, even if not in the driver seat itself. "The Stormwind Kensington-Whits are ruthless. Powerful. Unrelenting. My family broke from them some 80 or 90 years ago, fleeing military service in some war or another, and it's been that way ever since. There hasn't been an Elywnn Kensington-Whit living in Stormwind since," she tells him as she settles herself into place.

“Until now, hm?” Lathrik eyes her, climbing into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t comment on the seating arrangement as he takes up the reins. “There’s no need for apologies, about my father. As I said, I never knew him. Sorry about yours, though. Sounds like a man who deserves a good punch, if he’s the one who threw ye out. Think we could hire that mercenary who did for me to do it?” A small, self-depreciating smile follows.

Natalyah bares her teeth in a flash of a wolfish expression. "He wasn't a mercenary. He's part of the militia, or at least so he claimed, and it's probably true. And if I ever see him again, he'll regret it," she says, as she reaches out a hand as if she has every right to do so towards Lathrik's chin, where he took an elbow to the face. She can afford to inspect it; she doesn't have to watch the road.

His chin appears to have been stitched closed by an experienced hand, but the stitches are still present. It hasn’t healed enough yet, and too much time had probably passed for the use of magic. She doesn't touch the wound directly, just brushes her fingers around the peripheral of his beard, moves up a little along to his jaw, as if to see if she can, if he'll allow it.

“You an’ Hana both,” he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead as they travel through the Trade District.

At the name though, she pulls her hand back, as if stung, and throws her attention from him out to the road instead. "Your date, Hana? Tell me, because it has been preoccuping my mind, did she ever learn how to sit in a barstool properly?"

“Hana the barmaid,” Lathrik grumbles. “Elle’s cousin. Don’t remember that other lass’s name, an’ I left after you did.”

"Well you were hardly in any shape to be carrying on," she says, but the tartness is diminished by a pleased note. "I did like her though, Hana the barmaid. She has excellent recommendations."

“Smart lass, aye. Doesn’t make her advice less frustrating.” A pause. “Why d’you care so much, who I spend my night with?”

A shadow rolls over them as they pass beneath the gates of Stormwind.

She wraps her arms around herself as if struck by a sudden chill of it, and she's quiet long enough that he might think she's not going to answer, that she'll just sit there in stubborn silence rather than tell him.

But, no. As Elwynn forest comes into view, the trees in their vivid summer greenery, and the late afternoon sun burning hot, but at angle enough for stretches of shade along the main road, she inhales deeply, keeping her eyes on the path in front of them. "I guess it's…that sometimes it seems like maybe you care, about me, an interest for whatever reason. But really, I'm only another number, part of a perpetual chase of woman after woman. Another damsel to save, nothing more. You said it yourself in Duskwood, that you didn't step in for me, you did it to avoid guilt. Unless it's not like that, and that one of them does matter, differently, that you'd not just move on to the next if she stopped running, that she's not simply another notch, another rescue. So I poke at it. Trying to prove it."

She sighs heavily. "And it's not really your fault, and you don't owe me anything of it. It's… maybe the worst of it, I think, of coming back here after so long. I disappeared, and the world just carried on." She makes a noise, caught between a laugh and a sob, or maybe both at once, competing for superiority in one breath. "It sounds so stupid to say out loud, but I feel like it didn't matter that I existed at all. Completely interchangeable. My sister replaced me in my House. My friends replaced me with new friends. My colleagues replaced me with new researchers. It's like I was never special, never meant anything, and everything keeps reminding me of it, that I could l go away again, disappear, and nothing would change."

“What I said in Duskwood, was…” he seems to grapple with the next word. Wrong would be the natural conclusion, but something arrests his voice, keeping him from speaking it. “It was… There was a situation that…” He sighs, a heavy puff of air.

“It was an exaggeration,” he says at last. “I was… frustrated.” There’s probably more to it than that, but nothing he volunteers. Instead, his tone turns serious. “I didn’t know you before. I can’t say I know you entirely now. But if you disappear, Ms. Butterfly, I’d have it known that I’d look for you.”

She's still not looking at him, her eyes on the forest around them. But whether it's from the road or a deliberate shift, her thigh ends up pressed lightly against his. "That probably says more about you, than me, but at this point…" She shrugs. "And I know I wasn't exactly pleasant myself, in Duskwood. I was…frightened. It was too similar, I think, to what happened to Rhodes." She shakes herself a little, a quick twitch like she's throwing something off. "Anyway. Any behavior witnessed under duress is never accurate to the truth of a species." More quietly she says, "I'm sorry you got hurt. Thank you, for saving me."

She points to a path coming up, a much smaller, less paved country path than the main road. "There, turn left there. Follow that until I say. There's an oak we can leave the carriage at, and I can show you where to go."

Lathrik glances at her, a brief flick of his eyes, before his attention returns to the road. He steers the carriage onto the smaller path, a light tap of the reins to guide Risk’s movements.

“I’m not good at it,” he says. “Protecting. You’ve seen as much, but not the worst of it.”

"The only thing I've seen that you're not good at is protecting yourself," she counters archly. She reaches out a hand out in front of her, at a pretty specific distance, like she can feel something there, and then sets her hand back in her lap. "Four times now you've had a shield on me. Not once did you use one on yourself."

“I was stationed in Southshore.” Lathrik’s voice sounds weaker, like he’s straining to force the sounds out. “Until recently. Something was afoot there, but we… didn’t learn of it in time. The Horde — the Forsaken — attacked and… I lived.”

"And others didn't," she says, pulling the subtext out into text. She turns to him and in that same sort of impulse as before, sets her arm on the back of the seat to brace herself and stretch out, to set her face in the exposed crook of his neck where his armor is open enough, and press against his skin. "Horrible as it sounds, I'm glad it was you who lived," she whispers fiercely. He can feel her lips moving, the touch of her breath with the words. "It's worth it to me that you're still here, that I met you after. You're not interchangeable."

There is a large oak just down the road, its branches broad and heavily leafed. The ground around it is flatter, the tree's roots deep, that a carriage could pull off the path itself and not get a wheel caught.

“Others,” Lathrik murmurs, trembling against her touch, his intake of breath shallow. “The men I served with. The townspeople. The workers in the fields. I saved no one. And I don’t even know why. Why it was me who lived.”

His grip loosens on the reins and Risk, as if sensing his master’s uncertainty, slows to a halt.

It's difficult, and it cannot be comfortable, but she doesn't seem to care, as she sets her arm across him onto his shoulders into an embrace, turned sideways in her seat. She speaks against his skin, like her words are a shot to his veins. "I know. Sometimes you just do. Sometimes you live, and it's not fair, and it doesn't make sense. And you're angry and you hate it, but you keep living anyway." Her hair carries that deep jasmine and earthy scent, brushing against his face. The way she nuzzles at him is less human than wolf, a canine's comfort rather than a woman's advances. "But you didn't save no one. You saved yourself, intentional or not. That isn't no one. Not to your friends. Not to me."

“I didn’t — I don’t know what —” There is a note of helplessness in his voice, causing him to suck in another breath and hold it. After a moment of stillness, he drops the reins and his arms slip around her. There is a delicateness in the way he holds her now, a gentle hand stroking her hair as if somehow it will help him calm down. And it does. Little by little, the tension starts to leave him, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

“I don’t remember it,” he says after a while. “I blacked out after taking a hit. Thought I was done right there, but I woke up alone. It was as if… I didn’t have a choice but to live. Like someone… made that decision for me.”

She might have not remembered their traveling, or maybe she's aware they've stopped. She stays in the embrace like it's the most comfortable place she's been, ignoring the armor, the way the summer heat slips in, amplifies the warmth. "I understand. Really. I really do," she says. "When I was bitten — cursed. I should have died. I remember the moment I knew that I was bleeding out, why it was cold, why I thought I saw a wolf standing over me, delirium." She pants against him in that stress, and pulls in deep breaths against his skin that, like him, seem to steady her, calm her. "I dreamt of a wolf. And when I woke up, it was four years later, and I was in a cage. They'd given me something to bring my mind back. Rhodes, dead. The Berners, dead. But me? Alive."

She starts to say something else, and there's a shudder through her — and she breathes out shakily. It's not clear if she was going to say something else, or if what she was going to say was, "I know you probably hate yourself for it, for being the one maybe someone or something else saved instead of someone else. But I don't hate you."

The carriage rolls juuust a little as Risk reaches for some grass. He’s fine, keep at it, folks.

“’Twas a shit situation, Gilneas,” Lathrik murmurs. “But I’m glad ye came out of it. That I met you. Truth be told, I was in Duskwood to learn. I had my misgivings about worgen in the Alliance, and I was studying the worst case. Ye’ve cleared up any doubts I had. Doesn’t matter what form ye take, you’re still you. And ‘Talyah… you’re a person worth knowing.”

He adds, cautiously, “I don’t hate you either.”

She pulls back to be able to look at him. She's flushed, either from the sunburn earlier or the heat against his neck or some high emotion. Her eyes are very dark, pupils wide, and for a moment, a glance at his lips and then his eyes, it seems like maybe she'll lean forward differently.

But she blinks, because they're not moving, and she pulls all the way back, looking around them. "We're here," she says, sounding a little startled by it. She brushes a hand up to her hair to smooth it, and meets Lathrik's eyes with that sort of bold defiance, a dare. "Last chance to change your mind. Because if I drag those trunks all the way here, and get them all the way to Stormwind, I'm not leaving. They're heavy."

His own expression is mixed. A longing. A fear. As she pulls away he starts to reach out, as if to bring her back, but he doesn’t. The familiar mask returns to his face, and he lifts his brows at her.

“Who says ye’ll be draggin’ ‘em both yourself?” he challenges, directing Risk off the path more fully before stepping from the carriage to tie him off.

When Natalyah hops out of the carriage, in between the moment of jumping out and landing, she's shifted to her worgen form. In the bright light of day, her fur is almost bluish in places, reddish in others, within the deep tints of black. The dress still fits her — impossibly, having somehow shifted with her, although her shoe is missing. She moves around on her hands and single leg, but there's an agility to her now, an ease.

"That's just the thing," she admits. "I can't drag either of them, not really. I'd break them, if I tried. There are some limitations, things I still can't do." But, walking, or even running, isn't one of them. She points into the forest, off the path. "This way."

She keeps it to a fast walk, at most a slow jog, but she's a lot faster in her worgen form than her human one, and she slips through the forest like she knows it well; she probably does. There's something of a trail that she travels, places where she might have taken the same route repeatedly enough to start a path forming.

Lathrik follows behind her at a slower pace, downing another mana potion as he goes. His eyes roam the forest. “D’ye get any bandits out here?” he asks. “Sometimes the lawless folk set up in the woods.”

"Yes. But so do the wolves," she says, turning her head over her shoulder, though she keeps going. "The wolves keep away the bandits, and the wolves don't come into my territory, which means wolves are the smarter of the two."

She comes to a halt with a sigh, gesturing ahead. "Welcome to Nowhere."

Just in front of them is a low, small outcropping of a rocky, very shallow cave just on the side of a slightly sloped hill. Inside the cave is a leafy sort of darkness, where branches have been used to form a sort of barrier, likely hiding two, large antique trunks behind the barrier. The cave isn't deep enough to shelter both trunks and a person, and the sides of it seem rough and sharp, the sort of rock that can cut a person brushing up against it too hard. There's the evidence nearby of old fires, built small and contained, and outside the cave on the grass nearby is a well-worn depression of the grass into an oval-like shape, as if a worgen-sized shape had curled into a ball and laid there for hours — her bed.

And that's it.

Seriously, his place is a significant upgrade.

Lathrik scans the area and frowns. His eyes trace the oval shape in the grass, the hill, the rocky cave. He peers upwards, assessing the tree cover. “Lass,” he says slowly. “What’d ye plan to do when it rained?”

There is a tightness in his voice, bearing sorrow, and scarcely restrained fury. The air looks a little brighter around him, a shimmer that could almost be mistaken for afternoon sun.

"What people usually do when it rains — get rained on," she says, staring into some middle distance. "It rains a lot in Gilneas." She looks back at Lathrik, and for a blink — only a blink — there's gold in her eyes. There's embarrassment in her expression now, and when she speaks she has that brittle edge to her voice. "Sure, it's not much, but the rent is rock bottom low."

She moves forward to the little shallow cave, and pulls out a semi-latticed weaving of branches, tossing them back and to the side. As promised, there are the trunks: two, heavy cedar chests. There's something vaguely funereal about them, the sort of chests that you might pack of someone's things after a death that you aren't throwing away, maybe for sentimental reasons, maybe just to pass on to the next generation when they come of age. It's unlikely either chest, if they were these sorts, contained anything like blankets or pillows or elements of comfort. Just dresses, maybe jewelry, finery that was saved in the attic for someone else.

The shimmer brightens until it is unmistakable. The glowing currents of Light swell around him, flickers of it dancing in his eyes like fire.

“Will it damage them if I stack them?” he asks, already pulling one of them from the cave. Apparently his solution is to leave this place as quickly as possible.

The chests are flat topped, but they have feet, little curved stylized things at the four corners that catch on the ground as he drags one out; the fact that they seem a little uneven suggests they've already been slightly damaged getting them out here and into the cave in the first place. There are no easy handles on the sides — it's not a travel chest, clearly — and each chest is large enough to be difficult to carry on its own.

"Yes, and probably damage yourself trying to lift them both," she says. "Not really an acceptable cost either way. I told you, they're not the sort of things I can just toss around."

There is a defiant gleam to his eyes as he looks at her, an expression that says he’d try it anyway, if not for the property damage. Instead, he begins rapidly shedding his armor, leaving it in a haphazard pile on the ground. He even removes his sword belt, leaving him in just a simple white shirt and brown pants.

Returning to the chest, he sinks into a crouch. “Watch my back,” he says, finding his grip on it and lifting. His lifting technique is correct, bolstered further by the Light, and without waiting for her response, he starts back towards the carriage, turning every now and then to sight the path.

Oh, she's watching. Respectfully.

Before she follows him, she drags over the latticed branches, gathering up his armor into something of a pile, and setting the greenery over it. While he starts back towards the carriage, she looks up into the trees, searching for something. Not finding it, she makes an exasperated huff, and she ends up following him at a poorly concealed stalker distance, close enough that anyone or anything looking at Lathrik would see a worgen nearby, but not so close that she's on his heels, as she glances back in the direction of his armor repeatedly, and occasionally up at the trees.

"Really, not a single crow out today," she says as they get near the carriage, close enough that she's probably audible.

“Kill something. They’ll come,” he says, stopping in front of the coach door. He doesn’t ask why she needs a crow. His current focus appears to be on how to open the door without setting down the chest.

"Not here, they won't. They know better than to try to scavenge off me," she says distractedly. Well, that might explain how she's been staying fed. She easily crosses the distance between them in a few quick strides, and pulls open the door of the carriage with a human hand, her other hand holding tightly onto the carriage side. She's sweating enough to plaster some hair to her neck, from either the summer heat, the movement, the change — maybe all the above. "Might have been the armor. Contrary to popular belief, they really hate shiny, reflective objects. You can use them to scare one off from a caterpillar army. They don't eat butterflies, but they will eat them in the caterpillar stage."

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“Mm,” Lathrik says, lifting the chest onto the floor of the carriage. “Then I s’pose if there’re any caterpillars nearby, they’ll be grateful.” Sure, if caterpillars would even be aware of that. He gestures towards the door. “Thank ye. If ye’d like to have a sit, cool off, I can make it back with the other.”

"I'll sit and cool off when you do," she counters defiantly. She turns and it's that strange blink of rolling fur, and she's back in her worgen form, clearly with no intention of leaving him on his own.

Time Passes

That moment of sitting off and cooling down does not arrive soon. First there is the trip back to the Stormwind gremlin house to set the chests into place in the bedroom. Then there is the trip back out once more with the carriage to collect a door that will fit the frame (a task in which Natalyah insists on coming with to do, although her primary job appears to be just opening the doors for Lathrik carrying things). Then there is the task of actually putting the door in, which Natalyah watches (respectfully), and occasionally helps with holding things in place, while Lathrik installs a door that is not at all too tightly fitted (one might start to suspect that Reniya was not entirely truthful about the door sticking, especially since it hasn't seemed to stick at all.

The only task that Natalyah does not insist on remaining with Lathrik to help is the return of the carriage. By this point, there is no more real daylight left to burn; even the later summer hours have passed by and night is coming on, the cooling touch of the harbor breeze at last clearing some of the humidity.

When Lathrik does come back to the house afterwards, there's a few unusual elements in play already by the time he opens the door. For one, there are lights on inside the house, candles lit that warm up the interior, visible through the windows. And there's a scent of freshly baked chicken, spiced lentils, and warm flat bread with garlic and butter that hits him the moment he steps inside. The meal is set on the coffee table, for lack of any other option, with almost hilariously incongruous fine cutlery set beside it (the initials on the ware of KW suggest their likely origin from the trunks). A nearby basket from the Aspenwood-Moore wedding supplies the explanation for how she got the food from a nearby tavern to the house herself.

Natalyah is not yet seated by the meal; she's still up and moving in the other room, humming absently to herself. She's no exceptional singer, but she's not bad either, pleasantly in tune.

Lathrik pauses in the doorway, setting his sword and belt down atop the shelves beside the door like usual… except in slow motion, as he takes in the new sights and smells. He’s still dressed down, having deposited his armor by the door during their first trip, and he performs a quick scan of the street behind him before finally closing the door. Sorry, neighbors, it’s alternate dimension day. Neighbors rejoice.

“Ye brought food?” he asks, loud enough to be heard from the other room. There is a moment, a brief flicker in his expression, where he must be wondering if this is what it’s like to be married.

"Bought it, yes. I don't cook," she tells him. She is still in the tea dress from before, dustier from the day. "I can do dishes though. I'm not completely useless in the kitchen." She is moving around on her canes (the pair reunited) as she comes out into the living room, aiming for the couch to sit by one of the place settings. "After everything, least I could do is get dinner."

“Hardly anything to cook with here anyway,” Lathrik says, shrugging towards the small portable stove top. “Elle made that. I use it for coffee.” That’s probably one reason he frequents taverns. He moves to join her.

“These yours, then?” he asks, nodding to the cutlery.

Under the fancy cutlery are equally fancy cloth napkins. They certainly make an impression against the scarred coffee table.

She nods, reaching over to pick her plate up and napkin bundle off the table and onto her lap, tucking her leg under herself. "Was meant to be part of my dowry," she says casually. "That's the Stormwind Kensington-Whit 'KW.' I was supposed to marry into them."

There is quiet as Lathrik claims his own plate, stealing a glance at her as he does. “Was that… something you wanted?” he finally asks.

Natalyah snorts. "No. It wasn't even my choice." She eats several — large, unladylike — bites, as if she's been starving. She might have been. "I debuted into Society at the same time that I found out what I really wanted to do, what I wanted to study. I didn't play in the marriage market, and most of what I did made me increasingly undesirable by it. When I was 22, my parents gave me an ultimatum — either secure myself a husband, or they'd do it for me." She shrugs, eats another large bite, and keeps talking while her mouth is full, though she holds a hand up in front of her mouth to cover it. "I was in the middle of organizing my expedition to Gilneas to study the Zebra Longwing, a criminally understudied butterfly, because it's difficult to spot and its natural environment is heavily shaded and well established forests.

"So I missed the deadline, and my parents were approached by the head of the Stormwind Kensington-Whits, with an offer for me. They accepted it, and I was informed of the engagement. I actually met him, my intended, before either of us knew. I was at a cafe, and back then I was mostly just 'Talyah.' He introduced himself as 'Phil,' and he was…nice." She scoops another bite in. "Your brother reminds me of him, actually.

"Then we met again, under formal circumstances, and he found out I was an Elwynn Kensington-Whit, and he was…not so nice anymore. That side of the family has held us in nauseated contempt for so long, and he treated me like I was dirt under his nails." She stabs a piece of chicken too aggressively, and the plate squeaks under it. "So I left for Gilneas, and didn't look back, and when the wall came up, I chose to stay behind it for my butterflies. It's not like he came after me trying to knock it down to get to me, so, really. What kind of life was that going to be like anyway?"

“Why would they offer to have ye, if they held such disdain?” Lathrik asks. He might be adding a ‘Phil Kensington-Whit’ to his to-be-punched list.

"Don't know. Tiberius Kensington-Whit VII is the sort of man who doesn't explain himself to anyone. All I know is that he's cunning and he's ruthless, and if he had a reason to ask for me, it probably had some purpose. And it's not like my parents were going to stand up to him. If my father has ever had an original thought in all his life, it was entirely by accident, and he was probably deeply confused afterwards of what the voice in his head was. My mother has turned simpering into a competitive sport and aims for the world championship every year." She uses her flatbread to scoop up a large portion of the spiced lentils. "Doesn't matter now. I'm only a Kensington-Whit in a general name. Whatever plan Lord Kensington-Whit had for me doesn't apply any longer. The engagement's long been broken, for years now, with me in absentia."

Chomp.

"Whaa abou' you?" It's muffled by the bite of food, and she swallows a little down without chewing properly. "Paladin? Guard? Which came first?"

“If they afford ye any trouble now you’re here, I’ll see them regret their choices,” he says, beginning to eat as well. He seems in no hurry, but on close inspection, fatigue may be slowing his movements. “To answer your question, though, I’ve been a guard since the start of the Third War. Becomin’ a paladin was more recent. A couple months shy of two years, now.”

Natalyah on the other hand is making her way through the food like it's about to go out of fashion as soon as the clock strikes the hour.

"What did it?" She's leaning slightly towards him, watching him as if he's the most interesting thing in the room, which might be an admittedly low bar in the house, but the intent interest might have been the same even somewhere else. "I mean, why a paladin? Don't get me wrong, you seem the type, just…there's usually a story involved."

“The Scourge made a target of Stormwind itself,” Lathrik says. “They sent their forces, and they spread their plague. I was an… emergency measure. I did not extensively study the Librams, or receive months or years of training. I had an affinity for the Light, and that affinity was expanded upon so that I might better serve.”

Natalyah's chewing slows, and then stops, as she watches Lathrik with narrowed eyes, and not a small amount of wary concern. "Why does that sound like…" She shakes her head a little helplessly. "Like it hurt. Like you weren't forced, but you were given the sort of choice like do you want to suffer, or do you want to watch someone else suffer. I know the Church gets into suffering and penance for their jollies sometimes, but." She doesn't finish the sentence.

“Despite how it seems, becoming a paladin was my freedom, and something I wanted,” Lathrik says. “I have been serving in some capacity since I was young. It’s only recently that I’ve been allowed more agency.” He takes a bite of flatbread, rather than elaborate on what that timeline was exactly.

Natalyah shovels in several large bites, wiping the plate clean with the bread, and stuffing it into her mouth.

"Well then, you're lucky," she tells him, as soon as there's room to make words again. She leans forward, sets the plate down on the table. "You know what you want to do and you get to do it. Not everyone who got turned into something to fight the Scourge got that." She's got that bitter-sourness to her voice, the harsh edges of hurt sharpening her movements. But rather than escalate, it softens a little, and she blows a breath up along her hair near her face, and grabs her canes to push up into a stand. "I'm tired. You're probably held up by nothing but the Light and stubbornness playing dare with sleep. I'll wash the dishes tomorrow, if you can put them on the counter."

She's already turning, like she'd run away again — except this time, she'd be running at most ten feet away.

“Aye, a stroke of fortune in a time of suffering,” Lathrik says. Whatever feelings he has about this, they do not enter his voice. “It’s as if my star is destined to shine brightest while the rest of the sky goes dark. Get some rest. I’ll do as ye ask, this time. Thanks.”

She pauses at the door, half opened, and half through it, and looks over her shoulder at him. "It's not always worse, being a star gone dark. A star shining in the sky has to stay there. But the night sky, it's free, and it can go anywhere it wants. But freedom also means nowhere to be, and so, a star shining brightest becomes somewhere for it to be. Isn't that what they say about the Light and Shadow, in the Church?" She pushes the door a little more open with one of her canes, turns her head away from him, bowing it, the vulnerable curve of her neck illuminated by the candlelight.

"Thank you. For letting me stay." And then before he can say anything more, before she can say anything more, she pushes through into the room, and closes the door behind her.